Though you claim to be the page.
Your wrists are white
And bumpy;
Your palms feel balmy
And smell mangled.
I reduce you
Like a misguided rectangle
Into the square it was meant
To be.
But you are not evil.
The horns in pictures of you
Are drawn.
For that, I do not
Apologize.
I do ask for understanding.
At sixteen
I reported my palms missing.
My fists hid them rather well.
My eyes
Never
Looked down.
An open sore on my ribcage,
Now a gorgeous story
Reminded me
That to leave you
Was to know you.
I cannot believe
It took two cancers;
One I could feel,
One seen retroactively
To love you again.
With each overturned chair,
The contemplated swan-dive
To leave my unmarked body,
The hours of head crown
To the inside of a locker,
I cursed your name
As a bomb.
I wish you were your signature.
I do wish you were
Your signature.
Perhaps you will find this
Cruel
When you inevitably read it.
When you see your blood
Pumping through the words.
If this is the case,
Hold your breath.
Kill them
As they can only be killed:
In silence.
If you find these words
An attack
And see them stand erect
As your heart
Beats
Faster,
Then you are not your signature.
You are the page.
